


Free of body, Free of soul

by Rosywonder



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Gen, Political Alliances, Romantic Friendship, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:43:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosywonder/pseuds/Rosywonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What is one prepared to surrender in return for complete security of life?  Illya and Napoleon try to discover the dark side of an apparently perfect, but arcane town in Louisiana.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free of body, Free of soul

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to anyone who helped or encouraged me to complete this, especially my friend Miss Kitty, who kindly donated her name to an important character in this story, and also allowed me to use her childhood memories of Louisiana. I hope that I have done justice to them.

CHAPTER ONE

 

He could see, when he allowed himself a moment to glance up, that dawn was approaching rapidly. Light deftly pierced the cretaceous gloom of the swamp, a slight wind making the moss among the trees appear like dense, soft hair hanging from the boughs of the cypress looming into view ahead of him. The ground felt spongy in the meadow, the broken down shack he knew so intimately now suddenly passing into his field of vision as he crashed on past a line of oak trees, the empty swinging of its splintered door momentarily surprising him before, with head down, he forced himself forward towards the nodding moss and the lake.

 

The small rowing boat swayed gently in the water as he approached, his heart pounding but still daring to hope that he could sustain the energy which had driven him thus far. He stopped, dragging in a few lungfuls of damp, warm air, before with a sigh he knelt down on the wooden planks of the boat dock and began to edge his body towards the boat below.

 

A sudden, blinding light froze him in its beam like a large trapped animal, his body illuminated easily for the two men who seemed to have appeared out of the dense gloom as if by magic and within seconds, to have him in their grasp. He felt the cold fingers of the larger man on his neck, tugging his collar until he was forced upwards between them.

 

‘Kneel before your master.’

 

With a shuddering breath, he dropped to his knees as two familiar feet appeared below his head.

 

‘Landry. Ah wasn’t aware you were a free man, to go and do as ya will.’   There was a silence between them, only punctuated by the odd, desperate squawk of a long distant bird and the smooth lapping of the lake under their feet. Landry allowed himself to look up for the time it took him to re-acquaint himself with the other man’s cruel, supercilious stare.

 

‘My soul is free, whatever you may do to my body, Houghton’ he managed to murmur, before, with a thud, his body crashed to the ground under the baton’s vicious and final lash.

  

The three men stood over the body for a short while, before Houghton turned away, a slow smile illuminating his lips as he heard the splash behind him.

 

xxxxxxxxxx

 

The corridor was much like any corridor in any University or College that Napoleon Solo had visited in recent years, the usual gaggle of female students wending their way to classes, giving him the opportunity of taking a long, cool look as they turned into the many rooms stretching away from him down the hallway.   Reluctantly, he opened the door marked ‘Music Department Office’, and with a last glance behind him, entered the room.

 

A sound resembling an express train thundering over a keyboard stopped abruptly as a middle-aged woman removed the glasses from her eyes and stood up. Napoleon hazarded a guess that she was probably of Eastern European origin, her prominent, beak-like nose and thin lips pulled in a red gash across the rather long pale face staring back at him.

 

‘Yes?’ she said in an interesting accent that he eventually decided was somewhat similar to his partner’s and confirmed his initial supposition.

 

‘Oh, er, I’m looking for Mr Kuryakin; I was told he might be . . .’ She gave him a rather withering look before pushing past him to the door.

 

‘They are down there, the door at the end. I’m surprised you can’t hear them. Always practising, that boy; as if he has no home to go to.’ Napoleon smiled, thinking of his partner’s current apartment, though the term ‘rabbit hutch’ came more frequently to mind when he thought of it.

 

‘I’m grateful, ma’am’ he said, nodding at her before retreating backwards as the unmistakeable sound of an oboe drew him towards the end of the series of doors.

 

Kuryakin had his back to him as he crept in. The accompanist, whom he knew to be a lecturer in the department called Finlay Donaldson, smiled broadly and continued playing as Napoleon leaned against the wall by the door.   Illya had been undercover in the department for three months, the time it took for him to unmask the relationship between one of the staff there and a THRUSH plot to develop bombs which could be set off by particular musical scores. Luckily, it had been discovered before anything disastrous could occur and now Illya, with reluctance, was spending his last day in the department before reporting back to HQ.

 

‘Come to take him home?’ Donaldson said, as Illya finished the piece and turned round in surprise to see his partner.

   ‘If you don’t mind.’

   ‘We’ll miss him’ Donaldson continued, getting up from the piano. ‘He’s got to be quite popular in the department, haven’t you laddie?’

    ‘If you say so.’ Illya grimaced, pulling his instrument to pieces and packing it away carefully in a small black leather case. Donaldson had been involved in the affair from the beginning, alerting Alexander Waverly of his suspicions about his colleague and helping to keep the true identity of the blond student who had suddenly appeared in his classes a secret from both his colleagues and Illya’s fellow students. They wandered slowly up the corridor towards Donaldson’s office, his secretary stopping her frenetic typing again and standing as they came in.

 

‘So you are leaving us Illya Nikovitch?’ she said, Napoleon noticing a minute tear in her eye as she whipped off her glasses again.

‘Yes Madame Rostova’ he said seriously, allowing her to embrace him, before she stepped back and fixed him with a long, serious stare.

     ‘I hope you will take good care of yourself, Illya. And do something about this; your mother would be ashamed, I’m sure’ she added, tugging his hair firmly with one very long fingered hand.

 

For the purposes of his role as a student in the department, Illya had been allowed to dress in an appropriate way, as Waverly had put it, and the free flowing hair together with a black t-shirt and rather threadbare jeans now added to his bohemian, music student appearance.

‘Yes Madam Rostova’ he repeated, smiling ruefully, before shaking Donaldson’s hand and following his partner out of the office.

 

‘What was all that about?’ Napoleon asked as they rode along towards UNCLE HQ, the cab jerking forward in sudden bursts as they became enmeshed in the early afternoon traffic.

 

‘What? Oh nothing’ Illya replied, looking round from silent contemplation of the street. ‘Madame Rostova is a Russian of the old school, who came over as a child in the early part of the century. She decided that I needed adopting’ he sighed.

‘You’d never have guessed it.’

‘What, that she was Russian, or that I needed adopting?’ Napoleon rolled his eyes. In the comparatively short time they’d been partners they had slipped into the easiest of relationships, and now any lengthy separation seemed uncomfortable. The Russian was still a closed shop in many ways, but in others, he was surprisingly open and even eager to trust the American in what Napoleon termed ‘the Americanisation of Illya’. Getting him a new apartment was at the moment number one on Napoleon’s ever extending list.

 

‘When we’ve finished with Waverly, have you any plans?’ Napoleon asked, twisting round towards his partner, and trying not to grimace at his appearance.

‘Not especially, but I’m getting the distinct impression that you have.’ Napoleon smiled, and dug something out of his pocket.

‘We-el, there’s this we might go and investigate.’ Illya patted his battered black corduroy jacket and retrieved a pair of glasses which Napoleon assumed John Lennon had been wearing last, before grabbing the paper from his partner.

 

‘10b Grove St’ Illya read slowly. ‘A desirable apartment in an exciting neighbourhood.’ He groaned, handing the paper back to Napoleon. ‘With a desirable price, no doubt’ he continued. ‘I’m not made of money, Napoleon, and it looks huge. Where I come from, a family of eight would be living there.’ Napoleon looked back coyly, before stuffing the paper back into his suit inside pocket.

‘Well, you never know’ he said, grinning at the Russian’s scowl.   ‘It’s always a good idea to plan for the future.’

 

They entered the building at Del Floria’s, Del maintaining his usual inscrutable expression until Kuryakin’s back was turned.

‘Er, don’t you want to, er, change before the meeting?’ Napoleon ventured, stopping Kuryakin’s hand from reaching for the coat peg. Illya frowned a little, unconsciously pushing his hair out of his eyes as he returned Solo’s gaze.

‘Um, I think I have a suit in the office’ he replied, ‘so I’m afraid that you’ll have to bear with the indignity of walking down there with me as I am, Napoleon. It’ll only take a few minutes and then I’ll be more or less respectable.’ Napoleon sighed and followed his partner inside.

 

Waverly was at the console in his room when they arrived, Illya attempting without success to arrange his hair in a way that might make it look better than he thought it looked.

 

‘Ah gentlemen, take a seat. It’s good to see you back Mr Kuryakin’ Waverly said, narrowing his eyes a little at the Russian’s appearance. Kuryakin’s suit, a rather creased looking one that had seen better days, looked only a slight improvement on his student attire, Napoleon thought, as he slid into his seat and tried to focus on more important matters. The console disappeared behind its sliding metal door as Waverly pressed a button on his desk and the screen flickered into life on the wall.

 

A series of photographs appeared in slow succession. A variety of public buildings eventually followed by an enormous mansion house of the ante-bellum period, its splendid pillars and the views of its estate immediately alerting Napoleon to its possible location.

‘Deep South?’ he said, noticing that for once his partner seemed unable to contribute to the conversation.

‘Louisiana to be precise Mr Solo’ Waverly said, obviously not ready yet to supply any more details. They watched a few more pictures of what was obviously a smallish town, which from what Napoleon knew of the state, he was almost certain would turn out to be in a rural area. The photographs of the area gave way eventually to a map. Illya craned forward, until suddenly a broad smile cracked open his face as he read the name at the end of a large red arrow.

 

‘Napoleonville. Is there really a town with that name?’ Napoleon pursed his lips and prepared to assume a superior expression.

‘I think it’s a mighty fine name for a town to be named for. I presume you know the historical background of the state?’ Illya tried to tone down his smile into a smirk without success.

‘Um, a little. I suppose that’s what you get if you’re named after an Emperor rather than a prophet’ he continued, finally becoming serious as Waverly cleared his throat, giving Illya a look which seemed to combine approval and disapproval in one expression.

‘Yes, an interesting experiment in social engineering seems to be happening in this rather inconsequential town’ Waverly continued. ‘Ten years ago it was suffering the same post-war problems as many similar places in the area, but, as you can see if you were observing the photographs closely gentlemen,’ he said, with a look that had ‘annoyed headmaster’ written all over it, ‘then you will have noticed that things in Napoleonville, Louisiana seem to have taken a remarkably prosperous turn.’

 

Napoleon sat up a little in his seat and began to sort idly through the duplicate set of prints which Waverly had sent careering round on the circular table as they spoke.

‘So how did this miracle happen?’ Illya asked, screwing up his eyes before once again donning his glasses.

‘How indeed, Mr Kuryakin. It seems that Napoleonville and its inhabitants have benefitted from the attentions of . . .’ Waverly sorted through a few sheets of paper on his part of the table before drawing one out and gazing at it. ‘Ah, here it is. ‘The Arachne Foundation.’

 

‘ _Oh what a tangled web we weave . . .’_

_‘When first we practice to deceive’_ Illya finished off Napoleon’s quotation, flicking back his hair as he picked up a photograph of what looked like a children’s room in a library.

‘She looks nice’ he said innocently, inviting his partner’s eye roll again as Napoleon firmly removed the picture from his grasp.

‘So presumably this foundation has some ulterior motive for all this?’ Napoleon said, spreading out the photographs in a fan in front of him on the table.

‘Precisely, or that is what our man in New Orleans thinks.’ Waverly replied. ‘It seems that there are some political ramifications to all this.’

 

The map faded as the smiling features of a man’s face replaced it on the screen. He was part of a group of men and women, obviously connected to each other in some way. The others, though in the foreground of the photograph as well, seemed dominated by the figure of this man as he stood gazing towards the camera’s lens. It was obvious that the mansion they had seen in the previous photographs was the backdrop to this scene, the pillars disappearing into the top of the picture behind them.

 

There were five of them; two women and three men. The two women were obviously attached to the two younger men, whilst the third, shorter than the others with a cropped head of silver hair and a rather penetrating glare on his face, stood slightly behind.

‘The man in the middle is Edward Chauvin, Junior Senator for Louisiana and a native of Napoleonville’ Waverly said, pointing towards the picture with a little gadget he had in his hand, directing a small arrow towards the man they had all been drawn to already without the aid of technology.

‘That’s her again, the girl in the library’ Illya said, surprised by his own sudden feeling of disappointment at seeing her arm in arm with this man.

‘Quite right, Mr Kuryakin; the young lady is not only the fiancée of Mr Chauvin but the daughter of the man to her right, William Houghton, the owner of Darkoaks, the mansion and the vast estate surrounding it.’

   ‘Oh’ Illya sighed, frowning at the absurdity of his feelings for a woman he had only glimpsed at briefly in a photograph.

   ‘Well, that’s fine and dandy’ Napoleon said, smiling. ‘So who are the other two handsome folks?’ Waverly glanced across at Illya before continuing.

   ‘Andrew Arceneaux and his wife Lucie-Mae. We don’t know a great deal about Mr Arceneaux, except that he worked in Atlanta for some years as a lawyer in a private firm which we have concerns about, but Mrs Arceneaux has some interesting connections.’

‘Oh?’ Napoleon replied, wondering if she looked even better in colour than she did in black and white.

‘Indeed. She is the daughter of Huey Logue, Governor of Louisiana and Elizabeth Dupré Logue, whom you may or may not know, is the sole heiress of the Dupré Corporation.’ Napoleon whistled, enjoying his rare superiority over Kuryakin, whose blank, slightly tetchy expression invited an immediate explanation.

 

‘Salt’ Napoleon said knowingly. ‘The Duprés are the largest producer in the South.’

‘Oh’ Illya said, returning his gaze to the photograph in general and one person in particular.

‘So what exactly is our mission, sir?’ Napoleon asked eventually, grimacing at his partner’s suit jacket, which he noticed had come apart at the seam under the Russian’s arm.

 

‘I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Solo’ Waverly said somewhat grumpily. It looks highly likely that Mr Chauvin, if the polls are correct, will be heading for the Governorship of that State within the year, and if our contacts are to be believed, that is only a launching pad for much greater ambition.’

‘You mean . . .’

‘Yes, Mr Solo’ Waverly said, now fixing him with an intense stare, ‘Mr Chauvin appears to be heading towards Presidential nomination. If THRUSH is behind all this, then heaven knows what power they could wield if he were elected.’

‘So we should contact our people down in New Orleans then as a starting point?’ Illya suddenly interrupted. Waverly glanced at him and smiled rather more good naturedly than hitherto.

‘You can, Mr Kuryakin. I’d like Mr Solo to go to Baton Rouge and inveigle his way into the Governor’s set up down there. I understand that Governor Logue has a penchant for preachers of the hell fire variety. Our research department will help you with the necessary background’ he added. ‘Mr Kuryakin, Mr Laurence in our New Orleans office thinks that he can get you an opening in the Napoleonville library; that is as long as you can smarten yourself up before the interview.’

Illya ignored Napoleon’s grin and got up, his partner hesitating as the Russian headed for the door.

‘Um, can I have a word, sir? I’ll be along directly’ he addressed Illya, who with a characteristic shrug slipped through the doorway before Napoleon turned back towards Waverly.

Napoleon hesitated again, wondering if the feelings which were uppermost in his mind might appear rather unprofessional to his superior, if not downright emotional. The nature of their profession had led them to some far distant places already in their partnership, but surprisingly, since he arrived his partner had not been required to travel very far afield within his newly adopted country. They had worked extensively across the northern states and even up into Canada, but the Deep South remained an area that Illya was yet to experience beyond photographs and reports placed on his desk from UNCLE offices in those outposts. Napoleon’s experience of this part of America was more extensive, and knowing from personal experience some of the more uneducated attitudes emanating from the remoter areas, he felt a slight sense of unease at what the Russian might encounter there.

 

He watched Waverly shuffling together some papers, before the older man sat down, fingering his pipe unconsciously as Solo cleared his throat.

‘This may sound er, rather personal sir’ he began, ‘but have you considered the likely prejudice Mr Kuryakin might meet from, er, the locals in a small town in Louisiana?’ he said, watching Waverly closely for any sign of annoyance. Surprisingly, where Illya was concerned, Waverly seemed at times more sensitive than in his attitude to other agents in Section Two. He sighed and began to knock one of the pipes out onto a glass ashtray it was standing in.

 

‘I wondered about that myself’ he said quietly, ‘but I think you know Mr Kuryakin would be the last person to expect special treatment, Mr Solo. He was reasonably well aware of the attitudes of certain groups in this country towards his fellow countrymen when he came here, and besides, if he is to be fully effective as an agent in this region, he has to be able to work throughout it, not just in the places where he will encounter a more liberal attitude to people like himself, do you not agree?’

 

Napoleon nodded, understanding Waverly’s rationale, but still not entirely convinced that his partner would not have a very uncomfortable time at the hands of the natives of Napoleonville.

‘Perhaps if he conformed himself a little more to acceptable standards of dress and appearance he might find it a little easier’ Waverly said as Napoleon got up, an imperceptible smile momentarily flitting across the old man’s face before being replaced with his standard expression.

‘I’ll remind him’ Napoleon said as he got up.

 

Kuryakin was sitting at his desk with a neat pile of files in front of him as Napoleon entered, their secretary Carole coming through and dumping a rather larger load in front of him as he slumped down opposite.

‘Your signature is required on these’ she said, flipping back the manila cover to reveal Napoleon’s expense sheets for the last three months. ‘Your partner doesn’t seem to have incurred any expenses, it appears’ she added, giving Illya a disapproving look before returning to the room she occupied adjacent to theirs.

 

Illya leaned back on his chair, his glasses sliding down his nose lightly as Napoleon with a sigh, opened the first of the files.

‘What’s that?’ he said suddenly. The edge of a deep cream coloured envelope was sticking out from underneath Illya’s pile of files, the textured paper pointing towards Napoleon and inviting discovery. He drew it out, Illya pushing his glasses back and sitting upright as Napoleon perused the writing on the front of the envelope.

    

It had been opened, he presumed, in registry, the familiar UNCLE stamp placed adjacent to a neatly penned ‘By Hand’ notice at the top. It was addressed simply, to ‘Mr I N Kuryakin, c/o Del Floria’s Tailor Shop’.

   ‘One of your admirers seems to be desperate to get in touch’ Napoleon said, handing it over, as Illya, with a barely concealed frown of irritation, drew out the single sheet of paper from within. Napoleon watched with interest as his partner’s expression changed from curiosity to concentration and finally to horror in a few brief moments. He thrust the paper down on his desk and looked almost frantically at his watch before seizing the phone in front of him.

‘Damn that woman, she must have known that was here’ he muttered, Napoleon not quite sure who he was referring to, as he saw his partner glance at his watch for the second time in as many minutes.

‘Can you divert her with those?’ he asked, pointing to the expense sheets. ‘I don’t want her listening in to my personal conversations.’

 

‘She listens in?’ Napoleon said, craning his neck round to surreptitiously watch Carole behind him through the open door. From his vantage point he could see that she was also mirroring Kuryakin’s actions, her hand on the phone by her typewriter, a subtle, but rather sinister smile on her lips.

‘I’m certain of it. Katrina in translation told me about your assignation with that Swiss girl from the typing pool in minute detail, which she claims she overheard one of our colleagues in Section Two discussing with his partner in the Canteen.’

‘Hm. Perhaps she’s checking up on us after both of us blew her out over those dates.’ Illya grimaced, the memory of his so-called date with Carole, which turned out to be an embarrassing tea party with her parents at which her father lectured them on the evils of pop music, modern art and ‘long hairs’ as he called them, was still recent enough to cause an awkward silence between them whenever they were alone together.

 

Napoleon smiled knowingly and grabbing the folder, headed for the next room. Illya watched him launch into one of his many well-honed routines for distracting women from what they were doing before he arrived, which seemed to work even with Carole, whom he now saw replacing the telephone in its receiver before being drawn into the intricacies of Napoleon’s expense claims. Smiling, he dialled and waited, wondering what sort of reception he might get from the woman the other end of the line.

 

‘Marion Raven; hello.’ Illya breathed in, mentally preparing himself for the eventuality that she might cut him off when she realised who it was.

‘Marion? It’s Illya.’

 

It was interesting to watch Kuryakin’s body language and to try and work out exactly what was being said the other end of the line, Napoleon thought, as he settled back in the chair, Carole now fully immersed in checking his claim. He smiled as he heard the name.

 

He had very soon come to understand that as far as members of the opposite sex were concerned, he and his partner had very different ‘ _modi operandi’_.   Solo’s green book was legendary amongst those that knew him in UNCLE, as was his ability to attract, date and then discard women at will. As far as he knew, most of them remained at least moderately friendly towards him after he became involved with them. _Most_. He prided himself on being discerning in his choice, Carole being a notable and embarrassing exception. But then nobody was perfect.

 

Kuryakin, on the other hand, seemed to spurn the pleasures afforded by his partner’s obligation-free relationships, preferring prolonged periods of his own company rather than a casual fling with one of the many girls in UNCLE who would have lined up to have had the chance of a date with the shy blond in Section II. Occasionally though, he did seem to veer to the other extreme and pursue relationships which threatened to take a more serious turn than Napoleon would ever contemplate for himself or advise for his partner. Marion fitted exactly into this category.

 

She had been involved with them both on a mission following her father’s death and at first Illya had maintained his usual stoic attitude towards her, much to Napoleon’s amusement and interest. However, after she helped them out again on another related matter, he began to see her much more regularly. Napoleon liked Marion, but despite her superficially free-spirited attitude to life, he felt, knowing women as he did, that it would only be a matter of time before she grew tired of his partner’s constant, and often last minute absences, and would demand something of him he would not be prepared to give.

 

He watched as Illya removed his glasses, and ran his hand through his hair, both sure signs of Kuryakin agitation with the opposite sex.

‘I’m sorry, I’ve only just seen it.’

‘I know, but I haven’t been here for a while.’

‘I would love to, but I . . .’

‘Yes, until Monday. But I need to . . .’

‘Alright. Till six then.’

 

He looked up suddenly, catching Napoleon’s expression, a definite blush spreading across the pale cheekbones of his face. He put the phone down as Napoleon got up and moved nearer.

‘It’s Marion’ he said, thrusting the paper into Napoleon’s hand.

The message was short but to the point.

 

_This is my last port of call, since you can’t be found by any other means. If you want to see me again, then be at my apartment by six on Friday 12 th July. It would be nice if you rang, but I don’t want any excuses, just you for the whole weekend or nothing. I have something important to tell you. Marion xxx_

 

Napoleon perused the note and then put it down, before going back and firmly shutting the door between Carole’s room and their own.

 

‘Do you know what she means?’ he said, noticing that Kuryakin now looked even paler than usual.

‘I have no idea whatsoever, Napoleon’ Illya replied, ‘but no doubt I will find out very soon, as I have exactly one hour in which to somehow smarten myself up and get over to East 49th St.’ As if acknowledging the seemingly impossible, Illya threw himself down in his chair again and covered his face with his hands.

 

Napoleon reached for the phone and dialled a number as Illya’s face surfaced momentarily from its twin covering of hair and hands.

‘When one’s partner is in difficulties of a professional or personal nature, there is always a solution’ Napoleon said, raising his eyebrows to the said perplexed partner. ‘Ah Linda; hi there, are you alone?’ Illya groaned. This was a fine time for Napoleon to making assignations with somebody in another section, when his own love life was in danger of sinking rapidly and irretrievably. He had enjoyed playing the part of a student; it had been a genuine pleasure to study music so intensely again, and being able to dress as he liked had been an added bonus. Now, as he stared at himself in the full length mirror Napoleon had insisted upon installing in their office, a sense of impending doom filled his soul. If Marion saw him like this, then whatever she had planned for the weekend would come to an extremely abrupt end, he was sure.

 

Napoleon put the phone down and went over to the locker where Illya kept a few spare items of clothing. Apart from some spare underwear, all it contained at the moment was a clean t-shirt and some sweat pants that he had shoved in there some time ago, as well as a relatively uncreased white shirt and, slung round the hanger, his customary black tie.

‘Take off your suit and put these on’ Napoleon ordered, throwing the t-shirt and pants at him, ‘and then you have a date with Linda and don’t be long.’ Illya stood up, and without a word began to undress, silently handing his suit to his partner, before clambering into the sports clothes, and barefoot, following his partner down the corridor.

‘I’ll meet you back at the office in half an hour’ Napoleon said firmly, ‘which should just give you enough time to make it if you hurry.’

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

The apartment block was typical of the low rise buildings along the shady tree-lined street. Five stories of cool looking stone slabs with a handsome doorway opening onto a spacious foyer in an old fashioned style Illya liked, although the apartments themselves had been converted in the modern style he was not quite so sure about. The heat of the day still caught his breath as he dived from the cab and took the wide pavement leading to the entrance at a run, allowing himself a momentary gulp of air in the lift as it rose rapidly to the fourth floor. Marion’s apartment was one of four on that floor, the windows looking out to the street below where his cab had screeched to a halt, and from where she had doubtless seen him running full tilt towards the building.

 

He pressed the button, momentarily smoothing back his hair, which Linda in Section 12 had forced into a tight little pony tail after he had promised her a night at her favourite restaurant in return for escaping the haircut his partner had intended for him. The suit had been wonderfully restored by Del into something approaching smartness, though Napoleon had lectured him throughout the time he was changing about his miserly attitude to his wardrobe. Nevertheless even Illya had to admit that his transformation was indeed nothing short of miraculous in the time.

 

Napoleon had caught his arm as he was leaving.

‘Call me if it’s bad news’ he said, inviting a puzzled expression from the Russian.

‘OK’ he had replied, before Napoleon watched him run down the corridor and disappear into the lift.

‘I didn’t think he’d make it, considering the state he was in’. Carole stood behind him watching as Illya ran.

‘Didn’t think, or hoped he wouldn’t?’ Napoleon replied acerbically, before walking over to the desk and picking up the note. ‘And next time if there are personal things like this for either of us, make sure they’re on the _top_ of the pile’ he added, before sitting down and turning his back on her

 

 

There was a slight hiatus and then suddenly the door opened and she was in his arms, the smell of her perfume and the look of her upturned face combining somehow in his mind into one, delicious whole.

‘About time’ Marion breathed, after they had separated enough to allow her to pull him through the door and shut it behind them, before, with a smile, she looked him up and down.

‘Did Napoleon have a hand in this?’ she said, running her hand softly down the lapel of his jacket, a little frown forming on her face at the pony tail, ‘or did the smart fairy just wave her magic wand over you?’

‘I thought Napoleon _was_ the smart fairy’ he replied wickedly, drawing her closer.

 

Her bedroom was located up the stairs on the mezzanine floor above them, but for some reason she seemed to hesitate, preferring to lead him into the large living room instead. While she fixed them some drinks he went over to the radiogram and put on something suitable, the sort of easy listening stuff she liked and which he tolerated because she liked it. Afterwards, he found it easy to remember the way she had looked that weekend; the dresses she had worn, the way her hair was arranged, even though normally he had little interest in appearance, either his own or those he loved. She patted the sofa next to her and he sank down gratefully, accepting the vodka martini because that was her favourite drink.

 

‘So, what was it you wanted to tell me?’ he began, realising immediately that he had probably asked her too soon. She stiffened momentarily, before putting down her drink on the coffee table in front of them, and then taking his from him to put beside it.

‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing earth shattering.’ She looked in his face, suddenly realising. ‘Why, you didn’t think I was . . .’ She began to laugh a little, then stopped when she saw his expression. ‘Oh darling, no, that would have been too ghastly, wouldn’t it?’ Illya nodded, suddenly not quite certain whether he agreed. He reached for his drink again and sipped it meditatively. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to tell him yet, so unless he was prepared to ruin his weekend with her in the first hour, he knew he would have to wait until Marion was good and ready to reply to his question.

 

She pushed herself closer to him, pulling him backwards until they lay together, her arm round his neck, playing with the thick curl of hair at the back of his head.

‘Now, I’m betting from watching your arrival, Illya, and from this’ she said, tugging his hair slightly, that for some reason you didn’t have much time to prepare for our weekend’ she began, smiling at his rather transparently worried look.

‘Am I that obvious?’ he muttered, allowing her to draw his head onto her shoulder.

 

‘In one word . . yes. So, I’ve purchased a few little items for you; and don’t say you don’t need anything because I know that’s a lie’ she added, sliding her finger down his nose and then round the edge of his lips.

‘Alright’ he sighed, ‘as long as nothing is too outrageous and you give me the bill.’

‘They aren’t and we’ll see about the bill’ she said, laughing. ‘Then I’ve got a little weekend excursion planned.’ Illya sat up slightly and drew her closer.

’Oh, where?

 

She swung her legs down and stood up lightly, going to a table by the window and throwing him a set of car keys, the fob’s name and logo raising Illya’s eyebrows a little.

‘I have the use of a house at Cooper’s beach; do you know how to get there?’

Illya nodded, getting up and joining her by the window as they looked down to the street below.

 

He hadn’t noticed it before, but it now seemed glaringly obvious in the early evening sunshine. A red soft-topped Corvette was parked neatly in front of the building, the little twin chequered flags badge on its nearside wing announcing its marque, if anyone had any doubts as to its origins. Illya smiled in anticipation of the ride, while at the same time wondering how on earth she had magicked both the car and the house out of very expensive thin air for the weekend.

‘A friend gave me them for the weekend’ she continued airily, turning and smiling at his frown. ‘He’s away abroad’ she added, as if somehow that made it more understandable.

 

Illya glanced across the room in the direction of the kitchen, his nose telling him that nothing was cooking, not that that should have surprised him since he’d never actually seen Marion cooking, apart from the odd breakfast that she had provided him with on the rare occasions that they had been together all night.

‘I thought I’d surprise you’ she said, following his eyes. ‘When we arrive, we’ll stay in to eat; it’s beautiful on the beach in the evening.’ She grinned at Illya’s astonished expression, walking away from the window and pulling him by the tie to join her. ‘Alright, not my cooking, unless you want to die prematurely of food poisoning’ she laughed. ‘They’ll be there at nine, so we’d better hurry up if we’re to make it in time.’

 

They were about to pull out from the kerb when she grabbed his hand.

‘Damn! I left the house keys on the table in the kitchen!’ Illya breathed out and turned off the ignition, before holding out his hand for her apartment keys and then standing up and jumping over the top of the car door.

‘Impressive, darling!’ Marion shouted as he ran off, the smile on his face in stark contrast to the sudden crease of pain which splashed across Marion’s features as he disappeared into the building.

 

The keys sat in neat formation on the kitchen table, an empty coffee cup and a folded piece of paper keeping them company on the polished top. It was obviously a personal letter of a type, though the name of the company, a film studio, in bold type showed through the folded sheet. Almost instinctively, Illya flicked open the top fold, revealing the name.

_VANDYKE PICTURES INC_

He felt himself frowning, trying to remember where he had heard this name before, apart from at the beginning of the few films this studio had produced that he might have seen.  He closed his eyes momentarily, before forcing himself to flip open the rest of the letter. Three glossy colour photographs slipped out onto the kitchen top. Illya spread them apart with his fingers. They were all shots of the same place he assumed, the first one an exterior view of a substantial mansion type home of the Hollywood variety, the others showing the grounds with ubiquitous swimming pool and an interior of a luxurious looking lounge.

 

_Hi Honey!_ the letter began. _As promised, some snaps of my little place in Bel Air. You’re gonna love it, I know! Let me know when you’re heading my way, otherwise I might find myself coming your way to bring you home! No more vodka in the milk bottle here, I promise you!_

_Fred xxxxxxx_

Illya gathered up the photos and slipped them inside the letter before returning it to the envelope. He remembered now. The dark haired man asking for the vodka at one of Marion’s parties.

His hand was jerked by the sudden, piercing honk of a car’s horn in the street. He dropped the letter and, snatching the keys, turned and left the room, shoving apart the bead curtain separating the kitchen from the living area with barely concealed annoyance. Ignoring the open doors of the lift, he ran down the stairs, forcing himself to breathe steadily, forcing his face to at least regain some kind of normal expression before he exited the building and got into the car.

 

‘There you are!’ Marion said, a tiny frown flitting across her face. ‘I thought for one horrid moment that Napoleon had whisked you away on one of your missions!’ Illya gave her the keys and looked down momentarily, before re-starting the car, feeling the power of the engine as he edged forward into the traffic.

‘No’ he said at last, forcing a forlorn smile in her direction. ‘Not even Napoleon is going to get in our way this weekend; I promise.’

 

xxxxxxxx

 

Talking was mercifully quite difficult apart from the times when the car was slowed by the Friday evening rush to leave the city, and once they had cleared the Queens-Midtown tunnel and had picked up the Expressway in Queens itself, Marion seemed content to sit back and stare ahead, her headscarf and dark glasses making her look inscrutably chic as the car moved rapidly and powerfully along beneath them. The Interstate ploughed on inexorably through low-rise, sunny townships and communities, the dense city jungle soon exchanged for a more soothing landscape of oaks and mountain laurels, the smell of the sea drifting across into the car as the highway petered out into smaller, more intimate roads and the evening sun faded into twilight.

 

Illya risked a warm glance across as Marion removed her glasses, pushing herself into his side as he adjusted his arm to take account of her and slowed the car to a steady speed. After a while, the road eventually lead them towards the coast, skirting near a large lake, the evening sun setting its still waters ablaze with its rays as Marion suddenly gestured towards a narrow private road leading to a series of white clapboarded houses directly fronting the ocean.

 

He pulled up the car at the side of the nearest house and Marion climbed out, leaving him to bring in the two rather heavy suitcases which he couldn’t imagine would be necessary for only a couple of nights stay. The letter and its contents had replayed in his mind for the whole journey, Illya asking himself constantly why he felt so shocked that she had apparently chosen to leave her life in New York and therefore him when he had given her no encouragement to do anything else.

 

The place was as he had imagined it to be, a charming and well-appointed beach house, built in a traditional style, no expense being spared in its construction or the quality of its interior furnishings. A large open fireplace dominated the lounge, while its windows looked out towards the sea beyond, a series of large soft sand dunes demarcated by an interesting arrangement of wooden fences driven into the sand in a kind of loose zig-zag style across the dunes. Marion turned as he dropped the cases onto the oak floor that extended through the rooms he could see, a broad smile on her face.

 

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ she said happily, walking up to him and hugging him. He smiled ruefully. It seemed a very long time since they had sat back to back on a mountain in Yugoslavia, Illya foolishly describing himself to her in terms of any inanimate object he could think of. Later, not much later, he had proved to her finally that he was a human being after all, their love-making tender and sweet on the few occasions they had managed to steal when the whirl of their lives had deposited them in the same place. Now, with a sense of foreboding he could not push to the back of his mind, he began to wonder whether perhaps this was to be the last of those tender, sweet occasions.

 

There was a sudden knock at the door, Illya reaching inside his jacket automatically before with a horrified look, Marion tapped her watch.

‘No, Illya, it’s only the food’ she said, shaking her head and walking towards the door behind him. She ushered in a couple of white-coated men bearing a number of interesting and rather wonderfully smelling items into the kitchen, from whence Illya could hear a series of crashing sounds alerting him to the fact that the food was about to be served. The men made an equally tactful exit before Illya wandered in the direction his nose told him to take.

 

‘I thought we’d eat outside, seeing it’s so hot’ she said, their plates now filled with a selection of seafood and other succulent items that Illya noted she had chosen this time because they were his favourites. ‘Why don’t you take the cases upstairs and find something more comfy to put on?’ she added, glancing at him over her shoulder. He nodded and retreated, his stomach ordering him to hurry.

 

She had everything arranged on the table outside by the time he emerged again, her face lighting up at his appearance. He had groaned at the absurd quantity of clothes in the suitcase, but it was nice to jettison the suit in favour of a soft white cotton shirt on a different plane to the ones he usually wore and a pair of deep blue trousers of some kind of silk blend, his feet able to breathe again in the thong sandals placed with the other clothes she had so obviously grouped for him to wear at each stage of the weekend.

 

‘Will I do?’ he asked, taking the bottle of wine and uncorking it, before pouring her a glass.

Marion nodded happily, raising her glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’

Illya had to force himself not to frown at her words, but it was hard.

‘Let’s drink to now, to this weekend; no interruptions, no worries, and no UNCLE’ he replied, tapping her glass with his. She grinned.

‘I’ll drink to that.’

 

The bedroom matched the rest of the house in its sense of creative order Illya thought vaguely, as he followed Marion through the door and allowed her to divest him of his clothes before he had the pleasure of unzipping and removing her dress and stockings. Slowly at first, but then with increasing passion, he lifted her up into his arms and after removing the rest of her clothes, began to make love to her. The letter, all his fears and confusion, even all thoughts of life beyond this very moment seemed to lurch back into a place he seemed far away from and had no intention of going to. Only the room, Marion and himself were important; they were the reality he inhabited. The bed was large and very soft, and he found lying on it induced in him a kind of cocoon like experience of peace and safety while somewhere, far away, the rest of the world turned at a different speed.

 

Later, after they had both lain still for a while, the rhythmic cadences of the sea replacing the sounds of their lovemaking, Marion gradually came into his field of vision, one hand stroking back his hair, which was now chaotically loose of its bonds, as she leaned over him, her breathing a barely audible contrast to the raw, crashing sounds beyond. He rolled over towards her, suddenly catching a hint of sadness in her expression, her eyes dark watery pools beneath him as she lay back on the bed.

‘What’s wrong?’

 

There was a silence between them as she digested his words for a while.

‘Do you love me, Illya?’

She turned her head, taking in the familiar line of his nose and the fullness of his bottom lip as he in turn contemplated her question.

‘Yes, I do.   Only . . .’ Instantly she had put her hand on his lips, her eyes taking him in.

‘Don’t. Let’s just leave the ‘only’ for now’ Marion whispered.

 

Illya lay immobile, gradually aware that Marion’s breathing had slowed again to a steady soft beat. Eventually, with a feeling of sadness settling upon him like a dense fog he was powerless to lift, he too drifted into a restless, dreamless sleep.

 

xxxxxxxxx

 

Napoleon wove his way gracefully between the tables, giving the occasional nod to fellow agents, while mentally calculating the number of new women in the place since he’d last visited. The canteen seemed exceptionally busy for the time of day; perhaps the change of menu had initiated a sudden rush to try something a bit more interesting than the usual fare he decided, as he finally tracked down his quarry sitting with her back to him on a table at the far end of the room.

 

‘Finally, I thought you’d escaped me’ he said, as she turned, a broad grin lighting up her beautiful expressive features.

 

‘ _Liebling_ , would I?’ Napoleon smiled and manoeuvred his tray next to hers, her companion, a rather miserable looking dark haired man out of the Berlin office, getting up immediately.

 

‘Sabina, may I remind you that the flight to Berlin leaves at exactly 18:03 hours, and that it is imperative we should be at the airport at least an hour before take-off for the necessary checking-in procedures to take place.’

‘Tell me he’s not real’ Napoleon whispered, as Sabi stifled a giggle.

‘ _Nein,_ only German’ she said as her partner strode off, barging through a throng of eager looking new recruits from Section Four standing by the end of the food line. ‘But unfortunately for me, darling, he falls into the section marked ‘ Serious Germans with no sense of humour whatsoever’ she laughed, sitting back and putting her hand through Napoleon’s. ‘Still, no matter’ she continued lightly, ‘Kat is sending him somewhere cold and very serious for a while, so I won’t have to put up with him very much longer.’

 

Napoleon picked up his coffee cup and took a few sips, glancing at the German agent as he did. He and Illya had known Sabina for a year or so, ever since they had worked with her and her partner Kateryna on a particularly difficult and dangerous mission centred in Hamburg. But now that Kat had been promoted to Station Assistant Head in Berlin, they saw less of them. Sabi was particularly fond of the Russian, and he, despite protestations to the contrary, was equally devoted to her.

 

‘So, where is Blondie?’ Sabi said, as if Napoleon’s thoughts were readable. ‘Don’t tell me he’s working while you are idling your time away drinking coffee!’

‘No; as a matter of fact he’s idling his weekend away in the company of a very attractive English blonde’ Napoleon retorted.

‘Good; he needs someone to make him see that life is not just about working and studying’ Sabi replied. They chatted idly for the next few minutes while Napoleon finished his drink, before his communicator suddenly began to bleep.

 

‘Solo.’

‘It’s Carole. The Realtor rang, asking if you could meet her at ten.’ Napoleon frowned.

‘Tell her that will be fine.’ He shut the communicator with an abrupt clang before looking over at Sabi.

‘Buying a new apartment darling? I thought you liked where you live?’ Napoleon smiled, getting up and guiding Sabi out of the canteen and into the next empty lift.

 

‘It’s not for me, but I could do with a little advice, if you can spare the time.’ Sabi smiled and bent her head slightly, her eyes crinkling slightly at his expression.

‘I have the impression that you are up to something, Napoleon’ she said, coming closer; ‘something our mutual friend is not aware of, _ja_?’

 

The cab left them at the end of the road by the side of an attractive red brick church, its school obviously occupied even in these summer months judging by the sound of children’s laughter eddying out along the path by the side of the church hall.

‘A church and a school nearby’ Sabi said as they crossed the road and started to walk down the side shadowed from the sunshine; ‘do you think he will ever need either of them?’

‘He may, but that may be more his style at the moment’ Napoleon said, pointing down the street. He squinted slightly at the numbers as he compared them to what was on the now rather creased piece of paper he held in front of him, glancing up and down the road as it curved round towards a few shops and a jazz club poking out at the end of the street.

 

A woman was standing at the top of the short flight of steps leading to a solid looking traditional door. It followed the style of other houses in the street, handsome looking brick walls pierced by large sash windows, the roof space utilised by the addition of two dormers peeping out from the top of the house. Napoleon noted the steps going down to what was obviously a kitchen entrance, and the two post boxes and bells on the door, denoting that this house was in fact two spacious looking apartments. Leaving Sabi at the bottom of the stairs, he ran up lightly and offered his hand to the rather startled woman at the door.

 

‘Mr, er, Solo?’ She was middle-aged; about forty, Napoleon guessed, with the kind of winged spectacles that made him smile. Her suit, a pale blue affair that he noticed looked a little stretched across her hips was matched in conservatism by her over-sprayed hairstyle, welded like concrete to her head as she looked down at her clipboard. Nevertheless she had a friendly, affecting smile as she took his hand, and turned to open the door.

 

Her card announced her as Noreen Delaney, a real estate agent with twenty years’ experience of finding ‘the right place for you.’ She glanced down the steps at Sabi, who was now leaning against the railings at the front of the house talking to a rather large boy of about five.

 

‘Is Mrs Solo joining us?’ she said artlessly, looking over her glasses at Napoleon. He coughed, wresting Sabi’s attention from the boy, who with a slight salute to her, ran off down the road.

‘Who was that?’ Napoleon murmured as they followed the realtor through the door.

‘His name was Marvin and he was giving me the updown of who lives round here’ Sabi said, glancing at the door marked ‘10a’ in rather interesting script as they walked along the corridor and started to climb the stairs.

 

‘Anybody I should know about?’ Napoleon replied. ‘And it’s ‘ _lowdown_.’

 

‘Lowdown, updown, English is so strange’ Sabi replied, smiling. ‘The owner of the downstairs apartment is, according to Marvin, ‘an English dame with a great ass who has a swell job at the UN.’

Napoleon frowned. ‘A five year old child said that?’

‘He was very cute’ Sabi continued, ‘and very smart too. He was able to tell me exactly who lives at each house along this side, their name and their profession. We could do with him at UNCLE.’       

‘Well, I’ll bear him in mind next time we recruit for Section Three’ Napoleon retorted, plastering on a smile as they clambered up the stairs and entered a large, airy room overlooking the street at the front of the house.

 

‘The house was divided into two apartments in 1958’ Noreen began in a slightly droning voice. ‘As well as this fine living area, it has a bedroom on this floor together with a compact kitchen and bathroom facilities, as well as two further spacious bedrooms and storage facilities on the next floor.’

 

‘For compact, read tiny’ Napoleon whispered as they moved towards the windows. Napoleon found it hard to refrain from pressing himself against the frame of the window and peeking outside, as his training dictated he do on many, many occasions in empty houses and apartments. There was a clear view up and down the street, but apart from a few people desultorily wandering along, there was nothing much going on, to Napoleon’s relief.

 

Sabi tapped the floor with her heel.

‘The floor is beautiful, darling. I like the feel of the place, Napoleon, but don’t you think it a little grand for _him_?’ Napoleon glanced round, and then wandered through the other rooms, Sabi following. The kitchen was a little small for his tastes, but the bathroom, though rather old fashioned, was large and rather charming he thought. They wandered through to the bedroom, a smaller room than the other, but still possessing a similarly attractive oak floor and a direct view of the back garden below.

 

He could see that whoever owned the apartment below seemed to care about plants, or earned enough to employ somebody else to care about them. It reminded him of walled Mediterranean gardens he had visited; a lovely climbing plant with bright purple flowers clambered over one wall, while beneath, on a gravelled area, a long bench like seat stood, with a selection of pots overflowing with flowers and herbs arranged nearby. He hesitated, wondering if ‘the dame with the great ass’ would make an appearance.

 

‘Um, there is the possibility of a short-term let if you want time to think about it’ Noreen said, startling him a little.

‘Yeah, we, I mean my partner and I would be interested in that. We should be able to come to a decision by then’ he said, handing the Realtor a card and ignoring Sabi’s arch looks behind her.

‘Solo and Kuryakin Inc, Wine and Spirit Importers’ she read slowly, staring at him as she clipped the card carefully to her board.

‘Um, yes, we need somewhere for visiting business colleagues; you know from Europe and elsewhere’ Napoleon continued. The world of wine and spirits is an ever expanding one’ he confided.

 

They shook hands again outside the door and Napoleon and Sabi watched and waved as the Realtor drove away. Sabi was relatively silent on the drive back to UNCLE, Napoleon reading the contract that he had signed and ignoring her silent stares until they had reached the office and were safely inside with the door firmly shut against Carole. Sabi poured herself a cup of coffee from the machine behind them and sat back in the chair Napoleon usually saw his partner lounging about in.

 

‘I thought you wanted my advice Napoleon, but you appear to have already made up your mind’ she said, meditatively sipping her coffee. Napoleon put down the contract and took his coffee, coming to sit near her.

‘I do want your advice, now you’ve seen it’ he said. He pulled out a file from the envelope Noreen Delaney had given him, the details of the apartment specified on a small pamphlet inside, together with a couple of photographs of the principal rooms.

 

‘He has an apartment, however horrible you think it is’ Sabi said, picking up the pictures. ‘You cannot make him adopt your American lifestyle because you think it’s the only way to live, you know.’

 

Napoleon put down his cup and pinched the top of his nose. He suddenly felt tired. Tired of being at Waverly’s beck and call while his partner worked alone; tired of defending Illya to those inside and outside UNCLE who chose to make judgements based on superficial notions of race and loyalty; tired of worrying that the pressures of his partner’s new life might just push him away from UNCLE; away from their friendship; away from him. Suddenly his own lifestyle, the constant travelling, the women, the proximity of death and the thrill of cheating it even, all seemed shallow in comparison to the relationship between himself and that scruffy, introverted man whom he now feared could be making promises which would mean the end of what he had believed would be a long and brilliantly successful working relationship.

 

‘I don’t think that’ he muttered, looking up, seeing Sabi’s concerned face gazing into his own. ‘I just want him to feel, well, settled.’

‘He is settled, darling’ Sabi replied, stroking Napoleon’s hand comfortingly. ‘He is happy here, and he is happy working with you, very happy. But don’t try to change him, because you know you won’t be able to and it will come between you’ she said.

 

‘And say he finds someone else, and that person fills the gap that our friendship just doesn’t?’ Napoleon said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. ‘He’s quite impulsive you know.’

 

‘Now you are talking nonsense, darling’ Sabi chided. ‘For now, Illyusha is happy alone. There will come a time when alone is not enough, but not yet. Believe me, I know. Why? Are you worried that he will come back engaged to this English _fraulein_?

 

‘A little. I got the impression that there was something she had to tell him and he hasn’t been in touch either.’ Sabi began to smile, shaking her head at him.

 

‘You are sounding like a worried _mutti_ Napoleon! Sabi laughed. ‘Now, what are you going to do about this apartment, eh? Napoleon sat up and attempted a wan smile. He sighed. Sabi was right; he was being ridiculous thinking that he could ever guarantee anything in either his own or his partner’s life. He stared at the Real Estate details and then stuffed them back into the envelope.

 

‘It’s not a problem’ he said, feeling suddenly more confident. ‘We need a safe house for a few months after that one in East Village was compromised. Then, well, I still live in hope that my influence can succeed where others have failed.’

 

‘Darling, you are incorrigible’ Sabi replied, laughing.

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

He was visible from quite a distance, his running gait quite unusual and unmistakeably his, Marion thought as she watched him drawing closer to the house. He had assured her that the running shoes she had purchased were lovely, but that to run on the beach bare-footed was not only pleasant, but challenging.

 

Their first day together had been leisurely, though it was always hard work getting him to relax. They had spent the morning on a long, meandering walk, culminating in an equally drawn-out lunch followed by a few hours spent in the lea of the massive sand dunes fringing the coast, Illya spending some time in the sea, before eventually throwing himself down by her side, his black framed, opaque sunglasses hiding the eyes beneath.

 

Now it was Sunday, their last day together. Marion forced a cheery wave from the upstairs window as he approached the house, her expression sliding into seriousness as she turned away. She had broken the party to him the previous evening, after plying him with a very strong vodka martini and a careful choice of background music.

 

‘It’s just a small affair’ she said rather gaily, noting his frown, ‘just a few friends to . .’

‘See you off?’ Illya replied rather caustically, putting his drink down and turning to her. There was a silence between them, before he continued, ‘I think we should talk.’

She had sat down next to him then, resigning herself to the fact that he would not rest until he knew everything, as he always did. She knew then that whatever hopes she had ever had of something more permanent with this man were an illusion in her mind. There was something so serious in his soul that needed another, more serious, and deeper soul to engage with.

 

‘I don’t know what you mean’ she had started, aware she was contradicting herself, aware that he knew something already. He had pursed his lips and gripped her arms gently with his hands, forcing her to look into his eyes.

‘I read the letter’ he said baldly, not blushing at the statement in any way. It seemed a waste of time to either deny its contents or even to be annoyed with him, she knew that. After all, in his profession, prying into other people’s lives was a daily duty, she reasoned rather bitterly.

 

‘Well then you know’ she had said rather abruptly. He had looked at her, a long, searching look, before taking her into his arms.

‘I’m sorry’ he had murmured. After a while she had pulled loose from his embrace and reached for her drink.

‘What are you sorry about? Illya, I’m going to California for a reason. This, this affair of ours, we both know, don’t we, that it’s going . . . where? Nowhere. I can’t hang about waiting for you to decide what you want, and your job, well, it hardly makes it easy, does it? I don’t doubt that when you say you love me, you mean it, but just loving someone, it’s not enough is it?’

 

Illya stared at her.

‘Marion, I just can’t . . .’

 

‘I’m going to live with Fred, you remember the one with the vodka? There’s no commitment yet, but you don’t know what will happen when you give it time, do you?’ she continued. ‘ He’s a little older than me, a film producer. He’s very kind.’ Looking back on the conversation, she was struck by these short statements of her intent, and by his response.

 

He had leapt to his feet and walked over to the window, his shoulders tensed before he had turned, a look of passion she hadn’t seen before flowing across his face.

‘Kind?’ he had almost shouted; ‘kind? And you think that emotion is the basis of a future relationship. . . . of marriage?’

 

She had blinked at him in astonishment; although he could be relaxed and very witty given the right environment, he was rarely passionate, or certainly not in her presence.

‘I don’t know why you’re getting so angry’ she had said, equally loudly. ‘After all marriage is hardly on your agenda, is it?’ He had clenched his fists together imperceptibly, before turning away from her.

 

‘So this weekend, was it an attempt to persuade me into a proposal?’ he had almost whispered, the coldness of his reply making her shudder slightly. The silence between them was broken by his return to the sofa. He took her hand, his face now slightly suffused with a rare blush.

‘Marion, I apologise. I . . . that was unfair’ he said quietly.

 

They had sat closely together for a while afterwards until she had twisted round, holding his face between her hands for a moment.

‘Illya, I know that if I was going to be the one, it would have happened before now’ she had said smiling. ‘You may find my ideas hard to understand, but as well as being extremely rich and very indulgent, Fred is not only prepared, but desperate to look after me, and to be honest, that is what I need now. I’m sorry if you think I’ve lured you here under false pretences, but I wanted our last meeting to be, well, a special one.’

If he suspected that she felt more for him than she said she hid it well, but in truth, she knew that he had accepted her words. Their lovemaking that night had been filled with the tenderness she knew existed beneath the rather stern exterior he showed to the world, but, as with all things of beauty it had to come to an end. As he left her arms at daybreak, she knew that this was the last time she would experience lovemaking of this intensity with him, and for those moments, already passed, she grieved.

 

They had spent the afternoon, as the day before, on the beach. Now that the future was clear, his and hers, Marion felt that he seemed more relaxed, and his enjoyment of the weekend less forced.

‘Have you seen the film ‘ _From here to eternity_?’ she said as Illya assumed his usual position on his back beside her. He sighed a little and then rolled over.

‘No, but I have seen the scene you are no doubt referring to’ he said, his lips writhing slightly in amusement. Before she could reply he had somehow leapt to his feet, and then crouching down beside her, had lifted her up in his arms and run to the edge of the sea, Marion screaming into his ear as he went.

 

The shock of the water was equal to the shock of his rather impulsive action. She felt his arms round her, hugging her into himself as the waves pounded round them and then, with a roaring, dragging motion, retreated back down the beach, before, after kissing her intensely, he lifted her up out of the waves again and ran back up through the sand to gently place her down again on her towel. She stared back up at him as he gently dried her.

 

‘Mr Kuryakin, you are full of surprises.’ He smiled; his eyes an intense, cornflower blue in the light.

‘It was fun’ he said simply, a sudden look of regret sweeping across his face like a change in the weather, to be replaced very soon by the old, soft smile.

 

Marion suddenly sat up.

 

‘Before the party, there is one last thing I have to do for you that your partner, your boss and anyone else with taste will thank me for’ she said happily. Illya sank back on the sand, his hands behind his head.

 

‘I was wondering when that was coming’ he said gloomily.

 

‘Ponytails are for girls and slightly strange people who live in the Village’ she lectured him as they trudged back to the house. He suddenly thought of the house details Napoleon had shown him. Perhaps it was time for him to take another step forward in his life, but for the moment, it would be alone.

 

The party seemed to have arranged itself in their absence, the same caterers, this time in greater number, appearing at the house and providing a comprehensive spread of food and drinks for the incipient guests. Marion dragged Illya away from gazing longingly at the canapés, directing him towards the bedroom and yet another new set of clothes. In the bathroom he noticed the ominous signs of an imminent haircut on the double washstand, something she had obviously been planning in advance. He dragged over a chair, gazing at himself in the twin mirrors while she pulled off his t shirt and put her arms round his shoulders, kissing his head.

 

‘I shall miss you’ she said, before taking the towel and slowly winding it round his shoulders.

 

***************

 

The guests turned out be the standard Marion invitees; a motley collection of faintly eccentric human beings who knew how to party and didn’t ask many questions. They did all seem to know that this was to be her swan song though.

 

‘To Marion; bon voyage and Hallo California!’ a rather lanky man named Duke boomed out before people had drunk too much to care.

 

‘Marion!’ everyone shouted in more or less unison, before, a kind of combined gasp, then a frenzied clapping filled the room.

 

A man whom Illya now instantly recognised had stepped through the open French windows, surveying the party before heading, arms open towards Marion. From the look on her face, she had not expected him, but it was immediately obvious to Illya who he was, without the woman standing next to him filling him in.

‘Oh gee, that’s Fred Zillenburger, you know, the Film Producer’ she said excitedly, waving her drink around. ‘Don’t they make a handsome couple?’

 

Illya nodded. However he had expected the weekend to end, it was not in this way, or he had hoped so, anyway. He frowned slightly and then backed away from the woman, who was now regaling anybody within earshot with the same information.   He was an expert at disappearing from occasions such as these, but now he hesitated. Apart from the logistical problem of how he would get back to Manhattan, he felt suddenly reluctant to leave, without at least saying goodbye even in a formal sense.

 

‘Illya.’ He jumped slightly at her touch. ‘I hope you weren’t thinking of sliding away.’

 

‘That would seem the most appropriate thing to do, I think, considering’ he replied, as she took his hand and pulled him out of the open window into the night. A couple of guests rather too worse for wear were staggering inside as they walked towards the beach, the noise of the party lessened by the sea’s perpetual motion. They stood together at last looking out into the midnight blue of the waves, an occasional plane breaking the natural sounds of the ocean.

 

‘I must go’ Illya said bluntly. ‘Fred is here now, and it’s not, well, appropriate that I remain.’ Marion embraced him, her warmth taking him aback for a moment.

 

‘I know. I packed the bags; well I knew you’d want to go early even before . . .’ her voice trailed off a little. ‘Take the Corvette back please, and leave the car keys at the flat. Fred and I will stay here for a few days no doubt.’ She pulled him down onto the sand, where they sat in silence for a few moments before Marion spoke again.

 

‘Illya, would you do me a favour? There’s no rush of course, I know you’re probably busy, but when you’ve the time, would you take anything you want out of the apartment? Furniture or lamps or anything, I mean. I’m not taking anything with me to California, and, well, I know you don’t have a lot, do you?’

 

Illya smiled, thinking of his apartment and its sparse furnishings.

 

‘Um, yes, thank you Marion.’ he answered rather formally. He smiled at himself and her. It seemed incredible, and rather English, that their last conversation was seemingly going to be about furniture. Marion got up and hauled him to his feet. As he rose, she grabbed him. He pulled her closer and kissed her, the gentle waves a backdrop to the intensity of their farewell.

 

As they returned to the house, the sounds of a well-known song drifted out to them from the party, occasioning a wry smile from the Russian.

 

_You're nobody 'til somebody loves you_ __  
You're nobody 'til somebody cares.  
You may be king, you may possess the world and it's gold,  
But gold won't bring you happiness when you're growing old.  
The world still is the same, you never change it,  
As sure as the stars shine above;  
You're nobody 'til somebody loves you,  
So find yourself somebody to love.

 

‘Do you think that’s true?’ Illya murmured, as they neared the window.

 

‘Absolutely. So, Illya darling, do as the song says;’ She came nearer, giving him one last kiss. ‘So find yourself somebody to love. . . . please?’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
